


Seeking the Ambassador's Heart

by wombuttress



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:22:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8116252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: A torrid tale of romantic passion - a rough-edged warrior - a noble lady - a confession beneath the moonlight - a duel most dramatic - a love story for the ages! Cassandra and Josephine find themselves tangled in fate's red string. Leliana disapproves. Varric capitalizes. Blackwall whittles.





	

**Author's Note:**

> why arent there 700 fanfictions about cassandra and josephine doing each other's corny romance paths. disgraceful. atrocious. fixed.

**I.**

At first, Leliana thought nothing of it. Josephine and Cassandra were colleagues. It was natural that they spend time together, given that between the three of them they were practically running the entire Inquisition together.

So after the third time, fifth time, ninth time, that she happened to notice the two of them on the battlements from the rookery, Leliana thought nothing of it. Of course their heads were bent close together—it was windy on the battlements. One had to lean in close to hear one’s conversational partner. Even when she passed Cassandra by Josephine’s desk on her way to the war room, and overheard them discussing what was certainly not Inquisition business (unless differing taste in tales of torrid romance were somehow vital to the defeat of Corypheus), Leliana didn’t suspect anything. It was nice to see two of her friends becoming good friends with each other. Josephine didn’t know anyone else in the Inquisition besides Leliana, after all, and she worked far too much. This would be good for her.

In hindsight, the oversight was not entirely unconscionable. Leliana was, after all, spymaster of the Inquisition, and realistically about half of its leadership. She had lots of things on her mind. Such as the imminent death of Lord So-and-So of Antiva, and the blackmail of Lady What’s-Her-Face of Nevarra. It was important stuff.

And so, when Leliana casually glanced at a ream of papers on Josephine’s desk, and noticed that the words appeared to be in verse, she was only mildly mystified.

“Poetry, Josie?” she questioned, glancing through it. “ _Romantic_ poetry?”

“Oh!” Was that a blush? “Oh, yes…just remembering my days as a bard, I suppose. Composing poems and ballads, travelling the countryside…I do miss it sometimes.”

“Oh, yes,” Leliana said absently, “Yes, as do I.”

For a moment, _Cassandra likes poetry_ hazily floated through her mind, and she briefly remembered the half-dozen times she’d noticed the two of them in the garden together, apparently doing nothing but admiring the flowers.

But the notion of Cassandra—scarred, furious, built-like-a-brick-shithouse, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena “Deal With It” Pentaghast—romancing anyone so ridiculous that Leliana’s mind did not even fully form the thought before it was dismissed.

Ridiculous. Absurd.

Leliana slowly ascended the stairs to the rookery, drumming her fingers along the railing.

Oh, but she could spare a few Inquisition spies to the task, couldn’t she?

 

**II.**

Cassandra had been up in the rookery plenty of times. She often had business to discuss with Leliana—or at least, to ask her how she was doing. Neither of them had many friends, and they had both served Divine Justinia. They _were_ friends, weren’t they?

But somehow the rookery did not feel very friendly that day. Cassandra had never seen the place look so…ominous. Although, to be fair, having crows flying about did tend to lend ominousness to a place, and the brewing thunderstorm on the horizon didn’t help, either.

Leliana emerged from the shadows, sending a flight of the sooty birds into the air. Her eyes sparked dangerously.

“Cassandra,” she said casually.

“Leliana,” the Seeker replied, cautious. All her warrior’s instinct had her on a knife’s edge, warning of danger as surely as a charging great bear. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“I notice you’ve been spending quite a lot of time with Josephine lately,” Leliana remarked.

Cassandra fidgeted. “Josephine is a very gracious woman.”

“Yes. As I am sure you’ve told her.” Something in the way Leliana enunciated the word _sure_ made Cassandra think that she was only so sure because at least three different reports on the event had been handed to that afternoon.

“Well,” Cassandra said, “not in so many words.”

“Oh? And why not?”

“I’d end up with my foot in my mouth. You know I’ve no talent for compliments.”

“Ah,” Leliana said. “So you wish to pay Josephine compliments, then?”

In all their years of acquaintance, Cassandra had never, not once, defeated Leliana in any kind of verbal spar. She didn’t bother to try. She crossed her arms. “What is this about, Leliana?”

“Josephine is no stranger to courtly intrigue,” the spymaster said, “but love? There she is an innocent. She has no idea you are truly attracted to her—”

“What?” Cassandra squawked. “Me? Attracted to Josephine? That is—I have never been attracted to anyone, ever. The nerve—the _audacity—_ and how do I know, frankly, that _you_ aren’t attracted to her? Maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying to throw me off.”

Leliana arched an elegant brow, and tilted her chin upward. “Is that so? Well, good. As you know, an entanglement with our diplomat would be most unwise. You would do well to remember for that, for her sake. And for yours.”

“Well,” Cassandra blustered, “Well, good!”

Leliana heard her clanking all the way down the stairs.

 

**III.**

“Ugh, she is impossible,” Josephine complained, pacing the room like a caged lion. The large golden ruffles did little to lessen the illusion. “She called me ‘an innocent in love’?”

Cassandra sat on the couch, the picture of tension; both legs and ankles crossed, arms folded, jaw hard. She nodded, once, and then realized that Josephine was not looking at her. “Yes.”

Josephine threw her hands in the air. “I cannot believe her!”

The diplomat paused in her pacing to whirl and face Cassandra, her clothing glinting in the setting sun. She raised a pointed finger. “I am _perfectly_ capable of understanding our association!”

Even Cassandra didn’t understand their association. She only knew that it was…nice. All the close talking. The walks around Skyhold. Josephine’s embarrassed laughter. Her stories about her family. Cassandra’s significantly less happy stories about her own.

Josephine furtively returning a borrowed copy of _Swords and Shields,_ raving about how much she liked it. Josephine pulling international strings just to get her new volumes to read. Josephine worrying over her as she set off on a lengthy mission. Josephine tying a scrap of silk around her vanbrace—for luck. An Antivan tradition, she’d said, with an embarrassed blush and a curtsy, before hurrying away too fast to see Cassandra blush in return. Josephine asleep at her desk, her hair loose, her candle burned to a stub. Josephine carried safely to bed. Josephine, Josephine, _Josephine._

Josephine standing in front of her, arms crossed, expression crosser.

“I assure you, Lady Pentaghast,” she said archly,  “I never took your intentions to be overly romantic.”

“Yes. That’s—that’s—” Cassandra broke off midsentence and sprung up with the practiced speed of a warrior. “No, never mind. It is useless. I shouldn’t have come here.”

She made for the door.

The realization settled on Josephine like a sunrise, like a snowfall melting away at springtime, like a double-headed axe directly to the forehead. Her eyes went wide. It was many seconds, each of which lasted an eternity, before she could compel herself to move.

“Wait!” She caught Cassandra by the elbow, her other hand going to her mouth in terrible excitement. “You mean—you do?”

“I—I—” Cassandra’s eyes darted from side to side, seeking escape.

“You do!” Josephine gasped.

“Leliana was right,” Cassandra said, eyes downcast, “This was most unwise. I am sorry, Josephine.”

Josephine let go of her elbow, disappointed. “No, you’re right, of course,” she said quietly, returning to her pacing, slower now. “After all, we’ve only known each other these few short months. You couldn’t possibly have developed a liking for me so soon.”

“No! It’s not that!” Cassandra rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I… _do_ have a liking for you. Ugh. Call me a hopeless romantic, but you have made it easy. I admit I am—and you are very—” She gave up. “But there’s no hope of anything between us, especially in times like these.”

But Josephine was looking at her, with her sad brown eyes, and Cassandra, for reasons she could not fathom even to herself, did not flee.

“Well,” Josephine said, “why not?”

Cassandra dropped her hands to her sides, swallowing. “It is just—you are a fine lady. You deserve more than me. You deserve someone to—to court you, to read you poetry and bring you flowers. And I’m—blunt. Coarse. Not an ideal romantic partner for anyone.” She rubbed the back of her head. “I never thought I’d be the one to do the courting. Foolish, hopeless romantic…”

 Josephine let out a slight breath, pressing her pointer fingers to her lips thoughtfully. “Well, this seems a simple solution then. Quite simply, I will court _you._ Would that be acceptable? Is that what you want?”

Cassandra reddened. “No!” And this time she made it to the door, slamming it behind her.

Josephine was left to stand in the empty room, feeling somehow winded. She had never had anyone confess and immediately retract romantic intentions at her before. Perhaps Leliana was right. Dejected, she could only kick uselessly at the ground.

The door slammed back open. “I take it back,” Cassandra said, her broad shoulders sagging. “That is what I want. But I want the ideal. I want to be given flowers and read poetry in the moonlight. I want to be swept off my feet. It is ridiculous. I know. You, who are practically keeping this Inquisition afloat singlehandedly--you cannot afford to be the one to do that.”

Josephine set her fine brows in a stern line, lifted her chin. “Oh? Watch me.”

“You…you truly wish to properly court me?”

“Forgive me, Cassandra, but did Leliana not say that I was no stranger to _courtly intrigue?”_ Josephine’s bow lips curved into a smile. _“_ This, I can do. _”_

 

**IV.**

Leliana began to grow suspicious again when Skyhold started receiving orders of flowers by the caravan.

Tulips. Poppies. Carnations. Gardenia. Jonquils. Forget-me-nots. Daisies. At least three different varieties of violets. And roses. So many roses. Roses in shades Leliana didn’t even know existed. Surely they had been enchanted to look that way. Josephine would dash out, sign for the delivery, and dash back into her office.

Leliana didn’t recall the Inquisitor requiring Josephine to do any diplomacy with flowers, but she supposed it was possible. Josephine could do diplomacy with all sorts of things.

Then came the candles. An entire Grand Cathedral’s worth of candles. Some tall and slim, some short and wide, some simple, some elaborately carved, some of simple white wax, and some of pink and red and violet. Josephine signed for these as well.

Where was she putting them all?

One of her spies reported Josephine in the observatory, cross-referencing from the huge book of star movements there, and carefully recording something, although they were unable to determine what it was.

This, at least, was all quite easily understandable. Leliana could see quite easily where this was going. She had a thousand eyes across Thedas and she could see, with all of them, _exactly_ where this was going. Oh yes.

Except for the part about the improperly taxidermied great bear wearing a charming bowtie. Leliana couldn’t really see where that was going at all, actually. The huge, adorable thing didn’t even look much like a bear.

Leliana did suppose it was rather cute, though.

“You seem busy lately,” she commented one evening.

“Oh, you know what I always say,” Josephine said cheerily. “Kill them with kindness, yes?” Her eyes took on a steely glint, though her smile was soft as ever. “And there’s no kill like overkill.”

 

**V.**

Cassandra was interrupted in her training by a white dove, carrying a tightly rolled sheaf of parchment tied with a red silk ribbon. The dratted bird refused to leave her alone, cooing and gazing soulfully at her, until she took the missive. Only then did it flutter away.

Cassandra opened the missive. It read, _Meet me in the grove just outside Skyhold just after sunset._ It even included a helpful little map. How…thoughtful.

The parchment smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and a hint of something else. Cassandra looked around and discretely tucked it into her breastplate. She would be keeping it.

Cassandra wished she could have said that she was the very picture of restraint. That she waited for the sun to set with hardly a thought. That she went about her daily business as a dignified, comported woman, one who was certainly not being assaulted by stomach-butterflies or sudden bouts of giddy lightheadedness. That she was, as stone, completely unfazed. But to say any of this would be, in short, a lie.

As soon as the sun had but barely touched the horizon, Cassandra could take it no more, and darted furtively off to the grove.

By the time she got there, the sun had mostly set, and it would have been difficult to make her way through the trees—except for the soft glow of the candles leading the way, which was littered with rose petals. Cassandra could not suppress a slight intake of breath at the sight.

Finally the trees cleared away into a small meadow. If the forest path had been covered in candles, the meadow was overwhelmed by them. As the sun sank behind the mountains, the soft light of a thousand candles illuminated a clearing subsumed with flowers.

Cassandra could only stand in awe, drinking in the sight, and at first she didn’t see Josephine. She emerged from behind a sturdy tree like a nymph, and then Cassandra hardly saw the clearing. She had eyes only for Josephine.

Her hair was loose, but not loose as it was when she had been up late and it had come unpinned by accident. No, it was _intentionally_ loose. Dangerously loose. It splayed artfully across her bare shoulders—and yes, they were bare. Rather than her usual style of buttoned-up (if excessively shiny) Antivan dress, Josephine wore an absurd pink confection of ruffles and lace. It could easily have been ripped straight from a cover of one of Cassandra’s romantic novels. It was astonishing that such a garment could use so much fabric and yet be so low cut. Cassandra pointedly averted her gaze, and pretended staunchly not to be blushing.

“Lying asleep between the strokes of night, I saw my love lean over my sad bed,” Josephine said, in the tones of recitation. “Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head, smooth-skinned and dark—” She leaned against the tree, her voice strong. “With bare throat made to bite, too wan for blushing and too warm for white, but perfect-colored without white or red.”

Cassandra couldn’t breathe.

“And her lips opened amorously, and said—”

The words trickled to a halt.

Cassandra’s hands were at her lips. “No, don’t stop.”

“That’s all there is,” Josephine said furtively. The spell was broken. A moment ago, Josephine could have been a song come alive, shimmering in the starlight, eyes sparking like flames. Now she was only Josephine again, a warm, breathing woman standing right in front of her. This was, Cassandra thought, even better.

 “My own composition,” she admitted. “You’ll forgive the quality. And the dress…I wasn’t sure if, as the courting party, I was to wear a well-tailored suit or a gown, so I had both made, just in case. And if you prefer, I have acquired several additional tomes of poetry, that we could read together if you—”

Josephine did not finish the sentence, and for the rest of the evening, found her lips otherwise well-occupied.

\--

Both moons were out tonight, silvering the expanse of Josephine’s skin and giving her the impression of one ethereal—no, not ethereal. Josephine was too solid, too worldly, too real pressed against Cassandra.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, dazed.

“They are, aren’t they?” Josephine said happily. Her loose hair was now truly tousled. Cassandra had never imagined to see it like this, tumbling across the grass, sticking to her collarbones, curling over Cassandra’s shoulder. “Tonight was the first night in a hundred years that this event would occur. I was so excited when I found out it was so soon…I thought it would be perfect. I wanted everything to be perfect.”

“…oh. The moons. Yes. The moons are beautiful, as well.”

Josephine laughed, covering her mouth as she did so. She always did that, as though her laughter was something indecorous and impoliteness to be concealed.

“You’re glowing,” Josephine observed.

“So are you,” Cassandra said softly.

“You’re glowing red! Oh, my dear, you’re blushing all over.”

That only caused the blush to intensify. Cassandra had had so many things to say, about uncertainty and love and commitment, but now they had all entirely fallen out of her head.

She buried her face in Josephine’s hair, held her closer, and prayed— _Maker, let me have this._

 

**VI.**

Varric woke suddenly in the night. There was another presence in the room.

Cassandra’s eyes glinted in the gloom.

Varric yelped, jerking the covers over his chest. “Shit, Seeker! What’s going on?”

“You will not write a word of this,” she said flatly. “You will not allude to it, or borrow from it. You will pretend you know nothing about it.”

“What? What do I know nothing about?”

The Seeker’s eyes narrowed. She leaned over the bed.

“Don’t play games with me,” she hissed. “I heard from Hawke, your manner of taking _inspiration_ from their personal lives. I’ve _seen_ the manuscripts regarding ‘Lord Lovullen and the Magister.”

“Hey,” Varric protested, “That’s a rough draft. How’d you even find out about that?”

“I have my ways,” Cassandra said archly. The ways were named Leliana. “But that is not the point. The point is that you will _not_ subject myself to this treatment. If I sniff so much as a _hint_ of this, I’ll be back here…this time, armed. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Varric muttered. “Geez.”

Cassandra straightened. “Good. I will be leaving now.”

Varric fell back on the pillows, huffing. His brain would not catch up to the implications heard by his ears until well into the morning.

In the darkened hallways of Skyhold, Cassandra sagged against a wall, relaxed and giddy. There it was—the tallest hurdle had been passed. They were safe there. Somehow, against all odds, they had found happiness amidst all the chaos. Now, as long as they didn’t all die in a massive onslaught of demons—and Cassandra was reasonably confident that she would be able to take them—things would be alright. Things would finally work out.

 

**VII.**

Cassandra stood stunned. Boggled. Blindsided.

_“Terrible news—_

_“…engaged, to Lord Otranto of Antiva—”_

_“—cannot continue to carry on with you—”_

_“—_ please _do not do anything—”_

_“—I’m so sorry.”_

And then some bloody noble required her presence, and she had to go take care of it, leaving Cassandra feeling useless and winded in her empty office.

Cassandra didn’t really know how to process feelings very well, so she beat the everloving shit out of the training dummy for a few hours.

She should have known it would end like this. It always ended. Why did she ever— _whap—_ think that she could possibly— _whap—_ have a single nice thing in her life? How could she have ever— _whap—_ fooled herself so badly? She was a _fool_ — _WHAP._

The dummy broke. She stared at it furiously, wondering if Iron Bull needed any more fear beat out of him that day. Perhaps she’d go and ask.

It turned out that Bull didn’t particularly need anything beat out of him that day, although he did look at her with concern and ask if something was the matter, which Cassandra instantly denied, and slammed the door to the tavern on her way out. Probably for the best. If she hung about too long, Cole would have turned up and tried to help.

She hid in the smithy, fuming and despairing. The problem was, she did need someone to talk to. She just had no idea how. She did not, after all, have very many friends.

The Inquisitor would have listened. The man seemed curiously willing to listen to everybody’s petty concerns. But Cassandra refused utterly to breathe a word of this to him. Best case scenario, the proactive bastard would go and have the lord assassinated, and that would upset Josephine.

Leliana was not an option, either. She still did not fully approve of their relationship, though their friendship seemed for the most part restored. Still, he ominous crows that seemed to follow them everywhere they went had not abated, and Cassandra was at least somewhat convinced that Leliana had followed them in various disguises on a recent date to Val Royeux. (Josephine thought she was just being paranoid, but Cassandra couldn’t help but constantly see flashes of red hair in the corner of her eye that day.)

Anyway, even if that wasn’t the case, Leliana would _definitely_ just have the lord assassinated.

Cassandra ended up in the stables. Blackwall sat on a low three-legged  stool and whittled.

“—cannot believe this,” Cassandra ranted.

“Mm,” Blackwall said, whittling.

“I thought, for once, I had something good in my life,” she said, punching the wooden wall. It was good she had her gloves on, or else she would have gotten splinters. She had specifically left her sword behind to avoid destroying the stables _entirely._

“Mm,” Blackwall intoned sympathetically.

“But now—this comes out of _nowhere!_ And who knows how long it will take to untangle this mess? We could all be dead tomorrow, or next week, or next month! We don’t have _time_ to be proper about these things. We could have so little time…”

“Mm,” Blackwall agreed, steadily shaping some kind of quadruped out of the wood block.

“She wants me not to do nothing.”

“Mmm.”

“But I _can’t_ simply do nothing! I am a woman of action! When I see what must be done, I do it!”

“Mm.”

“Argh! I wish these things were the way they were in books. If I were like the guard-captain in _Swords & Shields, _I could simply—oh, I don’t know! I could simply _something._ Follow my heart, or some drivel like that!"

“Mm.”

“Is that—perhaps what I should do? Follow my heart?” Cassandra paused in her frantic pacing. She slowed to a halt, tapping her chin. “If I followed my heart, quite simply I would challenge this _Lord Otranto—”_  she pronounced the name like a curse, the corner of her lip rising as she did, “—to a duel and have done with it.”

“Mmm?”

“No, you’re right. Josephine does not wish for me to  act. For her, I can do that. For her I can do anything,” she said with resolve. “I will simply, sit right here, and calm down.” She sat down primly on the other stool in the vicinity, crossing her legs and lacing her fingers together. She tapped her foot against the ground repeatedly.

“Would you like a try at the whittling-block, Cassandra?” Blackwall offered kindly.

Cassandra accepted the knife and suddenly found that she could not unclench her fist from around it. She compulsively stuck it into the barn wall, scowling.

“Try something a little smaller first,”  he suggested.

“Perhaps it is best I do not have a weapon in my hand just now.”

“Right, right.” Blackwall went back to whittling.

Cassandra lasted for nearly five whole seconds. Then she rose and left the stables with a gait of absolute purpose.

 

**VIII.**

Cullen was almost having an alright day.

He had his Nevarran coffee. He had his daily reports to read over. Nothing terrible had happened that day. He was feeling almost well.

And then Cassandra kicked down his door.

Literally kicked it down. She’d kicked it, presumably because she was feeling impatient, and the force of it actually sent the door flying off the jamb, because what with all the repairs to Skyhold, the Inquisitor had never actually bothered fixing Cullen’s office, leaving him with a hole in his ceiling, a small retinue of friendly rats, and a door rotting off its hinges.

“Hello, Cassandra,” Cullen said.

She slammed her hands on the desk, rattling the accoutrements there. “I need a favor.”

“Alright,” he said. _What is it?,_ he didn’t bother asking.

“I need you to have one of your men send a _Lord Otranto of Antiva_ a formal challenge to a duel.”

He stared at her over the bags under his eyes. “Wh-why?”

Cassandra drew herself up to her full, intimidating height. “Because of—reasons! Don’t question me!”

Cullen didn’t question her. Ever since she had recruited him to the Inquisition, Cullen had never been under any illusions on who would win in a fight between the two of them—or an arm-wrestling match, or a thumb war. He reached for a scroll of parchment and an inkwell, and began drafting a missive.

“I’ll have my men leave by tomorrow morning,” he informed her.

“Good,” she said. She made a brief attempt to lean the door back on its frame, then nudged it aside to poke her head back into the office. “And tell no one of this. Especially not the Inquisitor. Or Leliana. Or—anyone. Or else.”

“Or else,” Cullen repeated dutifully.

 

**IX.**

Lord Otranto was a proud, hot-blooded Antivan, and so could absolutely not turn down the challenge. Such a thing would be unthinkable. He would never live it down. Of course he accepted.

Although, he thought, on his morning Brood along the shores of Antiva (as all proud, hot-blooded Antivans did daily), perhaps it was not entirely in the interests of his longevity, to accept challenges from the likes of Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine, Nevarran Princess, Slayer of Dragons and Hero of Orlais, Champion of the Inquisition.

Well, no matter. How skilled could she possibly be in the art of Antivan fencing?

He arrived in Val Royeux in his second-finest dueling-wear (every proud, hot-blooded Antivan had an entire wardrobe of dueling outfits) with his retinue, paid for a week’s stay at Val Royeux’s finest inn, and comported himself to the dueling arena fashionably late.

Cassandra arrived on a horse, in muddy travelling clothes, alone, and actually late.

“So!” Otranto intoned, gesturing for one of his attendants to provide her with a rapier of finest Antivan make. “You are this legendary Hero of Orlais that I have heard so much about!” He bowed. “I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance.” He raised his head, and his sword, smiling. “It is a shame it will be so short.”

“You talk too much,” Cassandra said flatly, and lunged.

“Ha-hah!” yelled Otranto, parrying. “So you are skilled in the art of swordplay! And here I thought—!”

“Sweet Maker,” Cassandra swore quietly.

 

**X.**

Josephine had had to make three bribes, enact a blackmail, and extort and unwilling ally to do it, but she had managed to arrange _very_ quick transportation to Val Royeux. She only regretted her foolish oversight in not seeing this coming earlier.

It was a good thing that Cullen was no more capable of keeping a secret from Leliana than he was of sprouting wings and flying off the battlements.

What was Cassandra _thinking,_ she thought furiously along the ride. She already spent countless hours worrying about what had become of her, every time she rode off with the Inquisitor on missions, wondering if this time, her departure would be permanent. And then, she had her companions to protect her! She had done this _alone!_

How could she just run off like this, she thought, pushing through the crowd of Val Royeux, hardly noticing how rude she was being. Didn’t she know about how proud and hot-blooded Antivans were? Anything could happen! This was utterly _idiotic._

“Stop this at once!” Josephine declared, bursting into the dueling arena, in a manner that was constrained and calm and not proud or hot-blooded at all.

“Josephine!” Cassandra turned to her astonished. “What are you doing here?”

Josephine marched directly up to her, her features set in stern, barely-restrained disapproval. “What are _you_ doing?”

Cassandra gestured about with her rapier. “What needs to be done. I am dueling your betrothed.”

“Yes, I can see that!” Josephine drew herself up to her full height and jabbed Cassandra on the breastplate. “Do you have any idea how foolish you’re being? Do you not realize that the Inquisition needs you? That—lots of people need you? What possibly made you think you could risk yourself like this?”

Cassandra at least had the decency to look slightly chastened. “I admit,” she said, “that I do not believe I was in any actual danger.”

It was then that Josephine first bothered to notice Lord Otranto, who was presently sprawled in the dust, bleeding from a dozen small—and very intentionally non-fatal, it looked like—puncture wounds.

“I can confirm,” he said, dazed.

“Oh,” said Josephine.

“The little toad of a man thought that a princess of Nevarra would not have been trained in every conceivable art of courtly war for years,” Cassandra said disdainfully. “A dire mistake.”

“I see this now,” the lord said, wheezing.

Josephine was momentarily split between asking the man if he was alright, her relief, her embarrassment, and her need to continue to be angry. Eventually she settled on the anger. She crossed her arms, lifting her chin. “Well, even if it was not a risk to you, personally, what do you suppose this will do to the Inquisition’s reputation, hmm? Do you think there will not be talk of this sordid affair, of how the Inquisition’s founder ran off to Val Royeux to squabble with a suitor of its diplomat? It will take me _weeks_ to settle this, on top of the work I will need to do to break this engagement—and what do you have to say for yourself? What _possible_ reason would you have to do this?”

And then Cassandra, overtaken by the very soul and spirit of every romantic protagonist she had ever read and adored—the guard-captain, the adventurous mercenary, the intrepid navigator, the lusty apostate—lifted up and buoyed into the extremity of ridiculousness, threw away her sword.

“Because I love you!” she declared, horrified at herself the moment the words left her lips.

The same thing which had come upon Cassandra—surely a Fade spirit of love, or perhaps more likely, of unnecessary dramatics—now settled upon Josephine. She was seized by the spirit of every blushing heroine, of every Starkhaven maiden, of every unmarried feisty young noblewoman. Her hands flew to her mouth. “You do?!”

The rest, as they say, is history.

“Well,” said Lord Otranto from the ground, coughing, “who am I to stand against true love?”

 

**XI.**

The carriage ride home was long.

“This was still very stupid.”

“I know.”

“You are very lucky that I am forgiving you.”

“I did tell you. I am coarse. I am blunt. I am a soldier, not a diplomat.”

A sigh, but a fond sigh. “That you are, my dear.”

A pause. “Is all truly forgiven?”

“After  that display, in front of all of Val Royeux? How could I not? Nobody would ever respect me again if I rejected you after that. Oh, goodness, don’t look so nervous, you know that I adore you, truly.”

“Right. Yes. But if you wish it, I shall find some way to make this all up to you.”

“Hmm.” Josephine leaned into her, considering. “Well, there _is_ an inn on the road, near a hot spring, that sells fragrant massage oils. Perhaps something can be arranged.”

“Oh, yes. Perhaps.”

Cassandra pulled her closer, and sighed, letting the rattling of the carriage lull her into some form of relaxation. She would not again make the mistake of believing anything would ever be _easy_ for her, but she was, at least, quite confident that whatever came, she would be ready to face it. They both would.

 

**XII.**

A year later, _Seeking the Ambassador’s Heart_ was published, and Varric was flung bodily from the battlements.

**Author's Note:**

> i will bring a femslash revolution upon this godless fandom if its the last thing i do on this miserable space rock  
> [my tumblr](http://wombuttress.tumblr.com/)  
> [my oc blog](http://pile-of-dragon-filth.tumblr.com/)


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